A/N: Just some warnings for some serious violence here. Torture included. Be forewarned.
THEN: Sam travels to California to find his brother. On the way, he remembers various times where Dean took care of him. Also? Dean's a little psychic and a lot of evil, which is never a good combination.
NOW:
I.
It was dull work, waiting around to kill your brother. In a town like this, your options for entertainment were severely limited. Watch some TV, go to the beach, kill somebody . . . been there, done that, and Dean wanted something new. He was itching to get out, go somewhere with a decent night life for once, maybe somewhere like Vegas. Dean figured he could have one hell of a time in Vegas.
But that was the real bitch about setting a trap. You actually had to wait around for your prey to get there, and Sam was taking his sweet fucking time to move his ass along to California.
Dean couldn't see Sam right now, couldn't get this psychic bullshit to work even a little bit consistently, but more often than not, Sam was in Dean's head, and that was a place that Dean didn't like him very much. Mental Sammy was gone, thank freaking Christ for that (although I guess he didn't have much to do with it, not like ole Jesus and I were ever on the best of terms) but every time Dean went to sleep, he ended up back in Sam's head, like Sam's thoughts were the only incoming radio station.
And Sam, being Sam, was being a total bitch about the whole thing—sending memories and dreams and the godamned fucking Doors—and no matter what he did, Dean couldn't get that song out of his head. Which was ironic because before Sammy had been the one to pick it up from Dean.
The blue bus is calling us
The blue bus is calling us
Driver, where you taking us?
"Yeah, Sam," Dean muttered to himself. "Where the hell are you taking us? What the fuck is the point of this stupid trip down Memory Lane?"
Because Dean wouldn't care if Sam was just being angsty on his lonesome; Dean wouldn't care if Sam was torturing himself by remember the good ole times when Dean had a soul. But Dean did care because Sam's emo bullshit was fucking contagious, and Dean was sick of going to sleep and waking up in Sam's head.
He'll be here soon, Dean reminded himself. He'll be here and as soon as he is, you get to make the noises stop. All the dreams and the memories and the thoughts and the songs. As soon as you kill Sam, it'll all go away.
Dean laid down on his bed, eyes staring sightlessly at the dark ceiling.
Soon, he thought. Soon, it'll all go away.
II.
Dreams of things he didn't want to think about, a life he didn't want to remember, a life he was disgusted that he had ever lived. Sam driving on an empty road, Sam driving, driving, coming for him.
Dean stood in a deserted hallway, walls painted an obnoxious shade of tangerine. The left wall was made up entirely of doors, red doors, blue doors, one right after the other. Every door opened with the turn of his wrist. None of them were locked—everything was ready, waiting, to be seen. And behind each and every door, Dean found Sam, 9 year old Sam, 13 year old Sam, Sam crying from a hospital bed, Sam begging for his brother.
Dean watched a younger version of himself stalking across a baseball field, heading directly for a group of laughing 16 year olds. Dean watched himself kicking the shit out of the six guys that had put his little brother in the hospital, trying his damndest to kill them with his two bare fucking hands.
And he could have to, he was raised as a soldier's son (only he was more than a soldier, he was a killer, and he didn't want to know that but he did—he knew exactly what he was, what he had always been) and he would have killed them, dammit, would have killed them for what they did to his Sammy, but his father found him before he could. His father came and swore and ordered Dean to stand down.
And it was probably the hardest order that Dean had ever had to follow, but Dean followed it, he did, because he was a killer and also more. He was a soldier and he was a good son and he did what his Dad told him to. So Dean let the guys go and swallowed hard against the need for more blood.
They'll never hurt Sammy again, Dean reminded himself. Sammy will be fine, and they'll never hurt him again.
But when he got back to the hospital and picked up his little brother, Sam still looked broken because Dean had failed to save him in the first place.
III.
Dean woke up gasping for breath and immediately put his hands to the side of his head. "Son of a bitch," Dean swore, clenching the sides of his skull, and fumbled around in the dark for a minute, looking for some aspirin and a bottle of tequila. Back, before, when he was that other Dean, he had never drunk tequila, at least, not when he was looking to get drunk. Jose was a good guy and all, but Jack Daniels was where it was at. Whiskey was his father's drink, a Winchester's drink, and that had made it Dean's drink too. But, secretly, Dean had never liked whiskey, had always thought it tasted like sour ripe goat piss, and had to knock it back as fast as possible until he was far too smashed to care about the taste anymore.
Now, Dean drank whatever the hell he wanted, and fuck what his Dad would have thought because that bastard was burning in hell.
I guess the joke's finally on you, Dad. You sold your soul to save the wrong son.
Dean got out of bed and the pain threatened to crush the sides of his skull in. He stood, hunched over, until he was pretty sure he could breathe again. Dean could still feel Sam echoing in his head; he was still pretty far away, maybe Utah, maybe not, and Dean was more than ready for that sonofabitch to be here. Dean was ready to let this be over all ready. All these dreams, all these memories, they were seriously crimping on Dean's style, and he hated the constant reminder of how pathetic he had once been.
And apparently that was all Sam could think about, the many ways Dean had lived his life for his brother. Dean wanted to bash Sammy's fucking skull in, and he just would not get here fast enough!
Dean had never been known for his patience, even when he had been in full possession of his soul.
He slugged back the rest of the tequila, but it wasn't enough to get him anywhere near drunk. There were bottles scattered all throughout the room, but every one of them was empty, and this was a lousy fucking time to be dry. "Need to restock on supplies before little Sammy gets here," Dean muttered and grabbed his wallet before heading out the door.
The car he was driving now was a fucking Volvo of all things . . . ugly as sin but an easy steal, and Dean had just needed a way to get from place to place. Still, when Sammy got there, Dean was so taking that Impala back. Fuck the nostalgic memories; I don't give a shit about any of that. I just need a decent ride and this Volvo? Seriously not my style.
Dean drove the fuckugly Volvo to the nearest liquor store. He passed a couple of 20 year olds on the way out, and he let his gaze linger on them for a long minute. Short skirts, long legs going up and up and up . . . and Dean sighed and turned away, heading back for his original target. He had caused a few too many "disappearances" in this town, and it wasn't like it was a huge place. Dean needed to be careful until Sammy got there . . . after that was done, he could kill whoever the hell he wanted and go wherever he pleased.
Freedom. That was the goal. That was the thing he'd never had his whole miserable life.
As Dean drove back to the motel, the pain in his head flared again, so sharp and white-hot against the sides of his skull that he could no longer see straight. He pulled over quickly, his hands over his eyes. This is such fucking bullshit. Motherfuckinggodamnedsonofabitchfucktard . . .
Dean continued in that vein for sometime until the pain receded to something somewhat tolerable. When he could, he opened his eyes and immediately noticed a boy walking on the side of the road.
The boy's age was hard to say. Maybe 10, maybe 12, certainly no older than 13 . . . floppy brown hair and big eyes that gave him a sort of aw-shucks puppy look. He had visible dimples even without smiling.
Jesus, Dean thought. It's like traveling back in time ten years.
And the possibilities . . . oh the possibilities . . . Dean's mouth pulled into a grin. He was out of the car before he even knew he was doing it.
He took a couple of steps towards the kid, who was slowly approaching and now looking cautiously at him. "Hey," Dean said, doing the friendly-I'm-not-a-soulless-monster-coming-to-kill-you wave. "How's it going, kid? Need a lift home?"
The kid was young, but nevertheless a little old for the whole rote, "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers" speech. Instead, he gave Dean a look that clearly said How stupid do you think I am
"That's okay," the kid said. "Thanks anyway." He started to walk past and Dean grabbed him by one arm, twisting his wrist and slamming him into the side of the car.
"I guess that wasn't really a request," Dean said calmly. The kid looked at him with startled, wide eyes and tried to struggle free. When it was obvious he was getting nowhere, he opened his mouth to scream.
Dean pulled out a knife and pressed it to the side of the boy's belly. "You call out," he said softly, "and it'll be the last thing you ever do."
The kid stared at him, big puppy eyes bugging out, and shut his mouth quickly, going absolutely still against the cold metal. Dean watched him for a minute, comparing the features. Eyes are the wrong color, he thought. And his skin's a little too pale . . . but otherwise, hotdamn! He could be a fuckin replica of little Sammy.
The boy began to struggle again, weakly, and Dean slammed the boy's head into his right kneecap. The kid crumpled to the ground, unconscious, and Dean picked him up, holding him almost tenderly in his arms.
God, he thought. He really does look just like Sam at that age.
Then he grinned again. And to think, I wasn't planning on killing anybody else today.
IV.
Back in the tangerine hallway again (and he could hear Sammy's voice, even behind the closed doors; Sammy said, "Dean, who goes around casually talking about tangerines?") and Dean was so sick of this hallway; he knew it so well. He tried to turn around, go back the way he came, but there was no going back. There never has been, not for him anyway.
He'd already seen what's behind Door Number One, and he was equally as unimpressed with Door Number Two, so he moved on further down the hall and stopped in front of a sky blue door. The door opened without assistance, showing Dean nothing but bright, solid white, and his own voice came right on through it, a strangely numb voice: I didn't love you, you know.
Dean knew. He knew what this door was, and he didn't want to see, didn't want to relive it, but there were hands behind him, invisible hands, and they pushed him forward, drove him to his knees. The white light faded, evaporating into fog, and the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him here.
His spot of frozen ground at Green Hill Cemetery. Sam unresponsive (dead) and staring at the cold, full moon.
He's dead, he thought. Sammy's dead, Sammy's dead. Sammy was there, just lying there. Dad was unconscious. Sam was dead.
Dead. It didn't sound right. Dead. It couldn't be right.
Dead. Sammy's dead. Sammy's dead. Sammy's dead.
He couldn't think about anything else, couldn't get anywhere past those two words. Dead. Sammy. Sammy. Dead. Sammy's dead. Sammy's DEAD. It made no sense. It made no sense . . .
Sammy's dead. Sammy's dead.
Dean felt himself slipping away.
He could hear a voice speaking in the darkness, and at first only barely recognized it as his own. "I didn't love you, you know," Dean said, looking at his brother, his silent, still (dead) brother. "When you first came home from the hospital, when they brought you home, I didn't want you. I wished you would just go back to wherever you came from."
Dean hadn't loved Sam like he was supposed to, and it was important Sam knew that. It was important Sam knew what a failure Dean had been.
Sam's dead (because of me) Sam (because of me) is dead, he's dead because I (killed) failed him.
Dean looked at his Sammy, his little, 15 year old brother (he never should have been here. He has a test; he needs to study) and part of him knew that he had lost it, that he'd gone around the bend, but there wasn't really much he could do about that now. Sammy's was dead (dead) and Dean was (dead too) going nuts because that was just sort of thing you did, when you failed the only mission in life you ever had. When you let your brother get killed. When you killed your little brother.
Dean talked to Sammy quietly, thinking of his mother and how disappointed she would have been in him. He hoped she didn't watch him, hoped she had no way of seeing his failures. He's sure she was proud of him, at one time, when she thought he was a good son. She hadn't known how much he had hated Sammy. She hadn't known how much he had resented the idea of even having a little brother.
And that resentment . . . it had never gone away, not really. The hate, yeah . . . Dean loved Sam like nothing else, but the resentment? Dean couldn't ignore that. Dean resented the HELL out of always having to be the strong one, having to look out for Sammy, having to be the big brother. He wanted to have a childhood too; he wanted someone to look out for HIM. Sometimes he had been so silently furious at his brother . . . and maybe that's why this had happened. He hadn't tried hard enough. If he had, Sam wouldn't have been dead.
Sammy's dead, because I killed him. I killed him I killed him he's DEAD.
The phone rang from behind him and Dean picked it up without even thinking about it. It was Pastor Jim calling, just checking in, making sure the hunt had gone fine, the boys were okay, that kind of thing. Dean knew Pastor Jim didn't approve of Dad bringing "children" on the hunt—Pastor Jim worried a lot, and sometimes, just sometimes, that made Dean feel a little special. He knew that was bad, knew he shouldn't WANT someone to be worried about him, but he couldn't help it. Sometimes, he liked the idea that there was someone other than Dad or Sammy who cared about him.
That didn't matter now, of course. None of that mattered, because Sammy was still dead.
Dean said hello to Pastor Jim and told him he was fine, everything was fine, but he must have been a lousy liar, because Pastor Jim had immediately gotten worried. He asked to speak to Dad and godDAMN, that was funny—Pastor Jim wanting to talk to Dad like Dad could fix this, like Dad could fix anything, like anybody could fix 'Sammy' and 'dead' being in the same sentence. Besides, even if Dad had some kind of magical power where he could resurrect his favorite son, he was down and out for the count—maybe even dying too. He'd be unconscious for a long time.
So, no, Dad couldn't fix anything, the way Dean had always believed he could. He told Pastor Jim that, that Dad couldn't come to the phone right now, and for some reason that was even funnier, was the funniest fucking thing he'd ever heard in his whole damn life. That's what you say, when you pick up the phone, Dad had once said, however many years ago. You tell them I can't come, but never that I'm not here. You never admit your position, Dean. Never admit your vulnerability.
There are monsters out there, Dean.
And your vulnerability is lying dead at your feet.
Dean couldn't stop laughing and Pastor Jim sounded all kinds of frantic. Dean wasn't exactly sure why—he was feeling a little too dazed to really follow the conversation—but then Pastor Jim asked about Sammy. "Put Sammy on the phone, Dean. Can you do that? Can you do that, Dean?"
And suddenly things weren't so funny anymore.
Sam's dead. I killed him.
Dean stared into his brother's sightless eyes.
"No", he whispered. "No. Sammy can't talk either." He took a breath, only now conscious of the tears that had been running down his cheeks. "I failed him. I failed him."
I killed my brother. I killed Sammy.
"Listen to me, Dean. Whatever's happened . . . you did nothing wrong. You did not fail your brother, Dean. You didn't fail either of them. Dean, can you hear me? Dean, this is not your fault. I promise you that, son. I promise you . . ."
Pastor Jim kept talking, but Dean didn't hear any of it. He didn't want to hear any of it. He knew it was all wrong. Pastor Jim was a cool guy and all, but he didn't know what he was talking about. He might have known a lot about God, but there was no God here, not for the Winchesters.
It was Dean's job, to protect his family. It was Dean's job to keep them together.
But Sam was dead, Sam was dead, and Dean had failed, simple as that. The family was broken. Sam was dead. Sam was dead, and Dean was dead too.
For all intensive purposes, anyway. For the rest . . . well, Dean could take care of that.
Sam's dead. Sam's dead, and I'm not going to live like this.
Dean stared into Sam's eyes and said, "I have to go now, Pastor Jim." He felt a little like he was dreaming, like the phone wasn't real, Pastor Jim wasn't real. The only thing that was real was Sam in front of him . . . and maybe that was the way it had always been.
In his head, somewhere, he could hear a voice. It was Sammy's voice, quiet, demanding attention. It wasn't the first time Mental Sammy had made an appearance, but it was the first time he had spoken so urgently.
Dean, you don't have to do this. Please don't do this, Dean, don't do this for me. Think of Dad, man. Dad's going to need you. You hold him up, man; you hold us up. Please don't leave him, Dean. Please don't do this to yourself.
Sammy spoke and spoke, and on the phone Pastor Jim sang the same song, but Dean didn't want to hear it. Dean didn't want to hear anything. Sammy was DEAD, his brother was DEAD, and yeah, Dad would need him, but for the first time in his life, Dean didn't care. He didn't care what Dad needed. This wasn't about Dad, not tonight.
This was about Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam and Sam was dead and that was all that mattered.
Dean couldn't live without Sammy. And if he could, well, he didn't want to.
Dean was ready. Dean was done.
All that was left to do was finish the job. He told Pastor Jim to take care of his dad, because even though Dean couldn't do it anymore, Dad would need somebody. Pastor Jim pleaded with him, but he didn't understand that it was a lost cause. "I'm sorry," Dean said quietly and hung up.
The phone started ringing again almost immediately, but Dean never heard it. He moved closer to his little, dead brother and brushed hair away from his open, fixed eyes. "It's okay," Dean said softly. "It's going to be okay."
He looked at the gun resting at his feet.
Yes, he thought, soon I'll make everything okay.
V.
Dean woke up, his head pounding . . . well, that was one way to put it, anyway. Really, his head was fuckin screaming, either from the vision or the hangover or some miserable combination of both. At first it was so bad that Dean couldn't even move, couldn't do anything but lie there and remember all the craptastic places that Sam kept taking them.
Jesus, yes, he remembered the graveyard, how he'd been all ready to kill himself because oh, boo-hoo, he'd failed Sammy. If Dad hadn't woken up when he did, if he'd been even two minutes later, Dean would be dead right now, a big fucking hole in the side of his head. But Dad had woken up, all bleary and concussed, and Dean had been irritated at his timing, sucky as fuckin usual.
He'd almost done it anyway, almost blew his head clean off his shoulders, but the soldier in him hadn't been able to resist, and he'd gone the way of dutiful son instead of suicidal brother. And then Dean saw Sam blink and Sam came back to life and there was happiness and puppies and blah blah blah—Dean was so freaking nauseous from the godamned Hallmarkness of it that he almost threw up right there on his bed.
Instead, he managed to stagger to the bathroom and throw up there, resting his head against the cool, white tile. When he got up some time later, he drank from the half-finished bottle of tequila and opened the motel's tiny closet. Mini-Sam was sitting there, arms behind his back and staring at him, terrified.
The mini-Sam's name was actually Ryan—he was eleven, liked Spiderman and baseball—and he was currently missing one ear that Dean had cut off and tied to the palm of the kid's hand. The kid was bleeding from a number of places, but nothing fatal, at least, not yet. Dean was trying to improve his patience, learn how to prolong the moment instead of just outright killing—but it was hard work, required practice.
Ryan made for an excellent test dummy.
Dean smiled as he took out his knife (the one he slept with under his pillow, his favorite) and trailed the side of Ryan's face with it, smiling as Ryan tried to scream through his gag. "No one can hear you, you know," Dean said softly. "Even if I take out this gag . . . people ignore screams, place like this. People only stay here to fuck or to kill—it's really no place for a child like you."
The kid's eyes were wide, almost uncomprehending. His fear made Dean grin. Fear was almost as intoxicating as booze.
"My Dad took us here, my brother and I, when we were kids. Can you believe that, a father taking his children to a place like this?" Dean shook his head, almost fondly. "He was one screwed up guy, my dad. Some people shouldn't be parents, you know. Some people deserve to go to Hell."
Dean sliced into the boy's cheeks, making sideburns with the tip of his blade. "I wish I'd been able to kill the old man myself, but sometimes other people get all the fun." He took a swig of the tequila, savoring the burn, and smiled at Ryan as Ryan watched the knife.
"Still, this life?" Dean said. "It's not without its perks. See, my brother's coming soon, the one I mentioned before? His name's Sammy, looks a bit like you, only, you know, taller. Hell, they got full-blooded giants that are shorter than my freaking Sasquatch of a brother. He's all legs and puppy dog eyes and emo-angst-bullshit-emotion. Anyway, he's coming, cause he wants to save me from myself or something, so, I figure, I'm going to have some fun with him, you know, spending a little time bonding, getting reacquainted. I think it'll be fun, kind of like a family reunion. Family reunions are a normal thing. Sam's always wanted normal."
Dean rested the blade against the tape over Ryan's mouth, watched him as Ryan, helplessly, stared back. "You know, Sammy always talked too much," Dean said suddenly. "Always going off, and about the most random, geeky stuff. Real into tears and hugs, my brother—like some seven foot tall chick or something. You're not like that, are you? You don't drive your brother crazy by constantly flapping your gums?"
Ryan shook his head frantically, and Dean smiled as he tore off the tape. Predictably enough, Ryan started to scream, and Dean easily rested the tip of his blade at the corner of Ryan's eye.
Ryan quickly shut the fuck up. Dean lowered the blade to the side of Ryan's mouth, eyeing the boy's tongue.
"You know," Dean mused. "I don't know if a person can scream without a tongue. I mean, I think he'd be able to but, you know, I'm not sure. And I want to be sure, I do, because ripping out a guy's tongue? Sounds like a lot of fun. Thing is, listening to someone scream is like the funnest thing of all, and if a guy couldn't scream without a tongue, well, I'm just not sure it'd be worth it. So, I figure, why not try it out once, see what it's like before the big finale with Sam? I so want to hear my little brother scream, and you know what they say, kid. Practice makes perfect, right?"
Ryan immediately started shaking his head, but Dean just smiled and held it steady with one hand. "Don't worry," he said, as Ryan started to cry. "Don't be scared, Ryan."
"It all ends, eventually."
VI.
Dean was watching a re-run of Family Guy on cable when the urge to piss got him off the bed and into the bathroom. He'd been bored as fuck the last few hours, watching TV mostly, and walking in front of the window every ten minutes. The pacing wasn't without a purpose—Dean knew his brother had crossed the border into Cali sometime today, and though he didn't know where Sam was at the moment, he knew his brother would be here soon. Wouldn't want to go through all the trouble of laying a trap only to have his prey unable to find the motel room. Still, waiting was dull work, and Dean was sick of the TV. He was sick of this motel room. He just wanted Sam to get here now.
Soon, he reminded. Soon, it's all gonna be over.
Dean walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, and hummed The Doors quietly to himself as he pissed. And that was when he heard it, someone climbing through the open window, and he thought, Jesus, Sammy, your stealth skills have always been for shit.
Even with Gordon Walker and being tied up to a chair . . . even then, Dean had heard Sammy, sneaking in quietly through the back. Dean had heard his brother even before Gordon did, although Gordon had heard him too, made them listen for the tripwire and the sound of Sammy exploding into a million pieces.
It wasn't that Sammy was completely useless; he'd been trained by their father, after all. It wasn't that Sammy wasn't good at this; it was just that Dean was so much better
Dean flushed the toilet and washed his hands (he'd been raised right, you know, for four years of his life, anyway) and then took the Colt out from under the sink, the Colt that the Demon had given him specifically to use against Sam. There was a certain poetic justice to that, though Dean didn't know much about poetics. He did know something about irony, though; his whole life had geared him for understanding that.
No longer, he thought to himself as he looked at the Colt. Today was the day that some changes were going to be made. His whole life had been one big fuck-up, one twisted mess of living solely for his baby brother. After today, things would be different. After today, he'd be free.
Dean opened the door with the Colt trained on Sam, who, predictably enough, looked shocked and stupid as always.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean said with a grin.
"Miss me?"
TBC
A/N: I swear to God, I originally intended for the confrontation to happen this chapter. Unfortunately, it was just gonna be too long, and I had to chop it in half. Sam versus Dean, next chapter, promise. And, as always, reviews are greatly appreciated.